Apostasy
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- This last denial of my faith,
- Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard;
- And, though upon my bed of death,
- I call not back a word.
- Point not to thy Madonna, Priest,--
- Thy sightless saint of stone;
- She cannot, from this burning breast,
- Wring one repentant moan.
- Thou say'st, that when a sinless child,
- I duly bent the knee,
- And prayed to what in marble smiled
- Cold, lifeless, mute, on me.
- I did. But listen! Children spring
- Full soon to riper youth;
- And, for Love's vow and Wedlock's ring,
- I sold my early truth.
- 'Twas not a grey, bare head, like thine,
- Bent o'er me, when I said,
- "That land and God and Faith are mine,
- For which thy fathers bled."
- I see thee not, my eyes are dim;
- But well I hear thee say,
- "O daughter cease to think of him
- Who led thy soul astray.
- "Between you lies both space and time;
- Let leagues and years prevail
- To turn thee from the path of crime,
- Back to the Church's pale."
- And, did I need that, thou shouldst tell
- What mighty barriers rise
- To part me from that dungeon-cell,
- Where my loved Walter lies?
- And, did I need that thou shouldst taunt
- My dying hour at last,
- By bidding this worn spirit pant
- No more for what is past?
- Priest--MUST I cease to think of him?
- How hollow rings that word!
- Can time, can tears, can distance dim
- The memory of my lord?
- I said before, I saw not thee,
- Because, an hour agone,
- Over my eyeballs, heavily,
- The lids fell down like stone.
- But still my spirit's inward sight
- Beholds his image beam
- As fixed, as clear, as burning bright,
- As some red planet's gleam.
- Talk not of thy Last Sacrament,
- Tell not thy beads for me;
- Both rite and prayer are vainly spent,
- As dews upon the sea.
- Speak not one word of Heaven above,
- Rave not of Hell's alarms;
- Give me but back my Walter's love,
- Restore me to his arms!
- Then will the bliss of Heaven be won;
- Then will Hell shrink away,
- As I have seen night's terrors shun
- The conquering steps of day.
- 'Tis my religion thus to love,
- My creed thus fixed to be;
- Not Death shall shake, nor Priestcraft break
- My rock-like constancy!
- Now go; for at the door there waits
- Another stranger guest;
- He calls--I come--my pulse scarce beats,
- My heart fails in my breast.
- Again that voice--how far away,
- How dreary sounds that tone!
- And I, methinks, am gone astray
- In trackless wastes and lone.
- I fain would rest a little while:
- Where can I find a stay,
- Till dawn upon the hills shall smile,
- And show some trodden way?
- "I come! I come!" in haste she said,
- "'Twas Walter's voice I heard!"
- Then up she sprang--but fell back, dead,
- His name her latest word.
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